If it is beautiful, it is because it’s transforming,
changing the look of the corner you turn on to go home,
bringing you around the steepest bend, because when
everything is white, nothing is clear.
If it is welcoming, it is because it’s engaging,
bringing your powers of suggestion to the forefront,
bringing the layers you’ve chosen to engage with the weather in
closer to the source of all that is you in this flesh.
If it is winter, it’s because despite everything,
the sun has managed to creep along its trail
to the next available season, done with scattering
the spent leaves of autumn, not yet convinced
we need any new ones. It’s the sun’s vacation,
relaxing as we should with a good book, fuzzy pants,
a cup of whatever tea we haven’t tried yet in this
age of home alert. If it’s snow, it’s because
the sun hasn’t the time or inclination to make it
otherwise. The plants make do with what little
entertainment ice provides. The sidewalks
bond with the crystalline intruders,
block the path from postal carriers and rabbits alike.
The squirrels perpetuate, their brains too
hollow to grasp the true meaning of a plow,
never minding where the nuts are buried,
sinking without fear into their logs of content.